


just like that day

by ephemeralsky



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Andrew Minyard, Stream of Consciousness, technically it's linear but the narrative switches between 2 time lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 18:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11697174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: Neil smiles more than he used to.Andrew has not really thought about this, even though he’s noticed it for quite some time now. He smiles a lot more, especially around Andrew, soft-edged and tantalizing. He grins and laughs without smothering the impulse anymore, without feeling self-conscious and afraid of resembling his father, without worrying how happiness seems out of place among the ravaged skin and frayed ends.Andrew is only thinking about this now because he hasn’t seen Neil smile in three days.(or: in which there is a wedding, a quiet morning, a hospital trip, and a lot of kisses and blatant staring, not necessarily in that order)





	just like that day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nebulousviolet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulousviolet/gifts).



> Written for Courtney (@vvorkangelica) as part of the AFTG Exchange, with the prompt “injured angst or hurt & comfort, with a happy-ish resolution”. This is comfort/hurt (in that order lol) more than anything, but I hope it still fulfills your request. This is the first time I'm writing a fic for someone, so I've been a bundle of nerves for the past month lmao. All that said, I had fun writing this, so I hope you'll like it!
> 
> Many thanks to Lisa for beta-reading this fic – I wouldn’t have had the courage to gift this fic to anyone if it weren’t for your help and input (especially the medical accuracies lol). Thank you <3 
> 
> TWs: Character injury, dissociation, selective mutism. If I'm missing something, please don't hesitate to let me know.

It is not supposed to be like this.

*

The morning breeze made the white curtains of the bedroom windows billow like the tentacles of jellyfish, gentle and elegant in clear water.

Andrew sat on the lounge chair by the windows, the bed a few feet away. He had woken up sometime ago, picking up a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants which might be Neil’s from the floor to put them on and blearily making his way to the kitchen to start the coffee machine. Having forgone his glasses, he had almost tripped over Sir on the way out of the bedroom, but Neil hadn’t stirred awake from Sir’s reprimanding mewl, so Andrew hadn’t felt as annoyed as he normally would.

He had brought back his mug to the bedroom and settled on the chair, putting on his glasses to finish a few pages of the crime novel he was currently reading, but his attention kept travelling over to a sleeping Neil.

He was lying on his stomach, the right side of his face pressed into the pillow curled around his arms, the burn scars on his cheek pink and honest in the morning light. His hair was a burning crimson, sucking all the air from the room, and Andrew skimmed his gaze over to the nape of Neil’s neck, the tiny rise and fall of his exposed shoulders, the hot iron mark laid bare, then down across each knob of his spine, the dimple on his back, and the cut of his hips, the duvet enveloping the rest of Neil’s naked body.

In place of scars, a constellation of freckles littered his back.     

This early in the day, right after the sun had emerged in the horizon, dew still clinging to grass blades and the city still shrouded in a lull, Andrew allowed himself to think, _he is beautiful_.

It was a thought shelved away for the rare days where he woke up earlier than Neil, the admission lifted away into the atmosphere alongside the mist, dissipating like a secret.

In the quiet of these mornings, he allowed himself to think, _I can have this_.

Neil had skipped his morning jog, and he would definitely complain about this when he woke up later, but he would never complain about the prospect of spending a lazy morning together, especially after a night spent in bed with Andrew.

By the time Neil’s eyes fluttered open, Andrew had drained the last of his coffee and the room was filled with a brightness so soft it almost irritated Andrew on principle.

Neil’s lips curved into a smile when his eyes landed on Andrew, and he murmured, “Good morning.”

Andrew’s fingers curled tightly around the handle of his mug. It was still unfathomable to him how Neil could look at him with such easy fondness.

Neil took his time sitting up, movements languid and expression content, the bite marks speckling his throat and collarbones stark against his skin. His hair was an atrocity.

“Get me some coffee?” he said, a loose smile still on his face.

“What would I get in return?” Andrew asked apathetically.

Neil blinked sleepily. “My gratitude and affection?”

Andrew stared at him, unimpressed.

“Fine,” Neil amended, words a bit slurred, “I’ll make French toast.”

When Andrew returned to the bedroom with the coffee, King had made herself comfortable in Neil’s lap while Sir had taken over Andrew’s spot on the lounge chair. Andrew threw a t-shirt at Neil, one of the items of clothing strewn across the floor from the previous night. Neil caught it swiftly and pulled it over his head, his reflexes less sluggish than his brain.

Andrew handed him his mug, and Neil tilted his chin up, smiling with his eyes half closed. Andrew fulfilled the silent request by bending down and pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

Andrew moved over to the windowsill with his book while Neil drank his coffee and grew more awake, browsing through the news feed on his phone with his other hand. Andrew did not understand why he even bothered when he bought newspapers everyday, usually on the way back from his runs. He was also probably the only person in their age group who still read physical copies of newspapers.

“What time do you want to go?”

“Ideally, I would not go at all,” Andrew stated, eyes tracking the flick of Neil’s thumb over the phone screen, his novel abandoned.

Neil arched an eyebrow, looking up from his phone. “You don’t want to attend your best friend’s wedding?”

“I have no such thing.”

He could hardly admit to having _friends_ , much less _best friends_.

Neil continued to give him a disbelieving look, so Andrew waved his hand dismissively, the closest thing he could do to conceding the point.

“We will leave at noon.”

Neil’s lips twisted and wobbled like he was trying to stave off a smirk, and he returned to scrolling through the news app before Andrew could scowl at him.

After a while, Neil placed his empty mug and phone on the nightstand, lazily scratching the underside of King’s chin. His gaze was anchored on Andrew, who watched him back just as intently.

“Something on your mind, Neil?” Andrew asked, a hint of mockery underlining his words, a sense of hypocrisy prickling his tongue.

In the distance, a passing train rumbled. King’s head snapped up, and she hopped off Neil’s lap and onto the windowsill beside Andrew to find the source of the noise.

Neil hummed. “Just you,” he said, knees drawn up against his chest, arms hugging his blanket-covered legs, lips whispering a smile. He was a field of wheat in the orange glow of the setting sun, wispy and radiant, the stalks swaying in the wave of a gentle breeze, and Andrew was caught in the middle of it all, unable and unwilling to leave.

Andrew didn’t say anything at the risk of giving any of his emotions away. He joined Neil on the bed instead, crawling forward until Neil was lying on his back, looking up at Andrew with eyes the color of the sky on a clear summer day, and like every other time, Andrew felt his throat go dry at the mere sight of them.   

“And what’s on _your_ mind?” Neil asked, voice laced with mirth, reaching up to remove Andrew’s glasses and putting them beside his mug.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” Andrew said, before catching Neil’s hands in his, fingers intertwined, and leaning down to kiss him.

During these mornings, Andrew could not imagine needing anything else.

*

The beep of the heart monitor, the flicker of the fluorescent light in one corner of the ceiling, the chilliness of the tile floors and grey walls, the essence of death in the sterile air.

It is not supposed to be like this.

*

Admittedly, Andrew found it rather amusing that Allison chose Neil to be her maid of honor. Two years ago, he had been Matt’s best man, and he simply shrugged and said _why not?_ when Allison brought up her proposition. None of them were bothered by the gender customs and connotations anyway.

Neil didn’t even have to execute most of the duties traditionally carried out by the bridesmaids; Allison took charge of planning almost every single aspect of her and Renee’s wedding, from the dress fittings and bachelorette party to the wedding ceremony itself. Neil and Dan, who was officially Renee’s maid of honor, didn’t have to do much of anything aside from attending the parties and looking pretty, as Allison had put it.    

Leaning against the Maserati, Andrew took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out under the sole of his dress shoe.

The weather was stuffy, the humidity clinging uncomfortably to his skin like moss on stones. He thought that being near the bay would mitigate some of the heat, but the gusts of wind that arrived were far too humid. The brides could have picked a better date to get married, but Andrew knew they chose this time mostly to accommodate their Exy-playing friends who only had the summer off. At least the reception would take place after the sun had set, when it would be slightly cooler, held at one of the Reynolds’ hotels. If Andrew had to guess, having the wedding officiation done in a church was only for Renee’s sake.

He saw Neil slip out of the back door of the pristine church and approach him with a wry smile on his lips.

“Already playing truant?” he asked, the coastal breeze doing its best to ruffle his slicked-back hair. The taste of salt in the air no longer had the power to rattle him.

He was immaculately dressed in a three-piece light grey suit, his shirt and tie a soft pink and pastel purple respectively. If there was one thing about Allison that would never disappoint, it was that she always did an excellent job at dressing Neil up.

Silently appreciating the sight, Andrew passed him his pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Speak for yourself.”

Neil lit one up, took a deep drag, and blew out a plume of smoke before leaning against the car next to Andrew, their shoulders grazing.

“She’s trying to seem relaxed, but I can tell she’s pretty nervous. She needs some time alone before the ceremony starts.”

“How uncharacteristic of her,” Andrew remarked, indifferent.

Neil breathed in the smoke until the cigarette was burnt halfway to the filter, at which point Andrew pilfered the stick, finishing it all the way down.

“What’s your excuse?” Neil teased, standing in front of Andrew and reaching out to pick off a speck of lint from Andrew’s charcoal suit. He left his hand on Andrew’s chest, fingers splayed over the sleek material. Andrew let him.

“Too many people and too much talking,” Andrew said plainly. He had managed to avoid speaking to their old teammates, talking only for a short while with Renee, who was getting her make up re-touched in one of the back rooms, and with Bee, who had intercepted him when he was poking around the altar and deciding whether or not he wanted to get onto the pulpit and get a rise out of one of the clergymen. There was still the reception to plough through, and he had no doubts that he would be spending the evening deflecting questions and idle chatter by outright ignoring them.

“Of course,” Neil said, close to a grin. Then his expression sobered a little. “Can I touch your face?”

“Yes,” Andrew replied, closing his eyes for a moment at the press of Neil’s fingertips against his cheek. When he opened them again, he was met with a stare like the bed of a lake, deep and dangerous and impossibly blue.

Lips parted and pupils dilated, Neil trailed his fingers over Andrew’s jaw and the shape of his mouth, before settling them against Andrew’s neck, thumb stroking over his increasingly erratic pulse.

“Stop staring,” Andrew said, sounding unaffected despite his parched mouth.

Neil moved his hand again, his touch fluttering over Andrew’s throat, down to the collar of his dark grey shirt and stopping at the knot of his burgundy tie.

“Sorry,” Neil said, almost distractedly, quiet and a little awestruck, “It’s just… you’re really beautiful.”

Andrew felt the effect of these words like a knife twisting his gut. A blade had lodged itself deep within his flesh, and Neil had always been the one to hold the handle.

“Shut up,” he gritted out, not quite able to strangle his emotions into a bottle and screw the cap on.

“Can't help it,” Neil responded, rubbing his nose against Andrew’s, not at all discouraged by Andrew’s display of controlled anger. Andrew didn’t know why he even bothered – Neil saw past his defenses as if he was as transparent as glass.

“Can I kiss you?” Neil asked, voice gravelly and eyes hooded, riveted on Andrew. He asked it as if Andrew had not wanted to kiss him from the moment he stepped outside.

“Neil!” Dan called out from the church door, relentless as ever despite the prominent swell of her belly, “Allison is looking for you!”

Neil grinded his teeth. Then he turned around to tell Dan that he would be there in a minute. Satisfied, Dan ducked back inside, and unsatisfied, Neil returned to staring at Andrew.

“What are you waiting for? The princess has summoned you.”

Neil had the audacity to smile, indulgent and sharp. “You know how rebellious I am.”

Andrew grabbed his tie and pulled him forward, startling the smile off his face. _Good_ , Andrew thought, before he kissed him, deep and bruising.

When they parted, Andrew gave him a short shove. “Now go inside and leave me alone.”

“Don’t think you can escape for long,” Neil reminded him. “The wedding starts in a few minutes.”

“Which should compel you to head inside immediately.”

Neil simply laughed, the sound echoing in Andrew’s ears even after he disappeared into the building. Andrew stubbornly stayed outside for a little while longer, like he was trying to prove some sort of point.

*

The fact of the matter is this: Andrew has let his guard slip.

He has grown complacent over the years, enticed by pretty eyes and mindful touches and precise words. He should have known better.

Andrew clenches and unclenches his fists where they’re dangling between his legs, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. His hands won’t stop shaking.

He needs to focus. He needs to stay calm. His lungs feel like they’re collapsing.

His knuckles are grimy with dried blood, the skin flayed from where he repeatedly punched the wall earlier. It doesn’t matter. He needs to focus.

His hands won’t stop _shaking_.

The fact of the matter is this: Neil has made him weak.

Neil has made him believe that he is allowed to have good things, to want good things, that he can be wanted in return, and now it is time for him to pay his dues. A part of him has always been prepared for this day, but it is not supposed to be like this.

It is not supposed to take away the person that keeps him alive.  

Neil has survived gunshots, he has lived through stab wounds, he has escaped numerous murder attempts, he has powered through concussions and torn flesh and sprained joints and broken bones. He has outlived his father and his mother. It is not supposed to be like this.

He is not supposed to die in a car accident.

Andrew is clasping his hands tightly together, but they still won’t stop shaking.

He has been waiting outside the operation room for forty-four minutes now. It feels longer than that.

Aside from his self-inflicted wounds, Andrew has a lump on the side of his head and a gash down his temple from where he hit the window. He thinks there might be blood on the side of his face. It doesn’t matter. He needs to focus.

It has been sixty-one minutes now. What is taking so long?

He hasn’t let anyone come near him long enough for them to even tend to his injury. An EMT almost got stabbed at the scene when she ventured too close and got between him and an unconscious Neil, but the former Foxes know better. Perhaps they have finally learned a thing or two about self-preservation. They’re in the waiting area somewhere, still bedecked in their dresses and suits and red from all the alcohol, but Andrew supposes the accident is enough to sober them up.

Andrew thinks he has been in one car accident too many. It is not supposed to be like this.

They were supposed to drive back to their apartment, where the cats would be waiting. Neil would be happy after spending the evening with the people he cared about, the smallest of smiles still painting his lips even when he laid down on their mattress to sleep.

Instead, they are at the hospital. Neil might be dying and there isn’t anything that Andrew can do.

He does not need this lesson in helplessness. He, of all people, knows what it is like to have silk in the palm of your hands only for it to slip through your clumsy fingers. You can never get it back even if you scrabble desperately after it, clawing and scratching until there is nothing but blood under your fingernails.

Neil had jumped off a cliff and had dragged Andrew down with him, and they have remained airborne all this time, through all the fair weathers and storm clouds. But Andrew should have known better. It is inevitable that they would come crashing down.

The fact of the matter is this: Andrew has willingly allowed Neil to become the one thing that can destroy him.

So now his hands won’t stop trembling, his heart pounds jack-rabbit fast in his chest, and his throat closes around a lump of fear that chokes him.

*

Renee had been telling him about part of her honeymoon plans – she had some charity work lined up on the side while they visited several different countries, apparently – when Neil came up to their table, cheeks slightly flushed after being forced to dance with multiple people, including but not limited to Allison, Robin, and Matt. He plopped down on the chair beside Andrew, loosening his tie a little. A few strands of hair had fallen over his forehead, damp with sweat. Andrew’s fingers jerked.

In Russian, he said, “Tired of stepping on other people’s toes, Johnny Castle?”

“Excuse you,” Neil said in the same language, crinkling his nose, “I am a decent dancer.”

“I did not realize you were delusional,” Andrew retorted dispassionately.

“I don’t want to hear that from someone who doesn’t dance.”

Neil smiled slyly; they both knew that Andrew danced, but only in the confines of their living room, the radio murmuring a slow melody, and only when Neil asked him to, which was few and far between. Neil was more or less baiting him, a challenge to see if Andrew would dance with him here.

“How about it?” Neil asked, head tipped a little in the direction of the dance floor, his eyes bright and severely aggravating, especially the way they left Andrew’s throat arid.

“No,” Andrew said, taking a sip of champagne.

The smirk still playing at his lips, Neil shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

Renee watched this all unfold with a smile, a knowing look in her eyes. Andrew resolutely ignored both her and Neil, slanting his gaze to the side, where he spotted Wilds and Muldani comparing their baby bumps. Their husbands, he thought idly, must be chugging down gallons of alcohol at the open bar and making fools of themselves on the dance floor.

“Oh,” Renee said, clapping her hands, “I adore this song. If you don’t mind, I’ll be cutting our conversation short. We can continue later?”

Andrew was aware of what she was doing, but he simply nodded and watched her flash a smile at Neil and go onto the dance floor, looping her arms around Allison’s waist and waltzing to the center, their white dresses, dyed rose at the hems, swirling like flower petals.

A man’s velvety voice crooned along to the airy beat. The other occupants of their table had left to dance long ago. Neil had his eyes shut, body rocking minutely to the music, expression unfurled like a truth, smoothed out by something akin to serenity.

It was getting to be too much for Andrew. He tore his eyes away from Neil, finished his drink, and got to his feet. The movement caused Neil to blink up at him, and Andrew darted him a glance before walking towards the doors. He knew Neil would follow.

He cut a path through the manicured lawn and across a sidewalk that circumvented the hotel grounds from the shore. The concrete stairs leading them down to the coastline were wide, and Andrew stopped at the last step, Neil coming up beside him a second later.

The beach was deserted and the tide had risen. The light of the moon glinted across the ocean crests and snatched icy reflections from the pools of Neil’s eyes. Buffeted by the mild wind, Neil’s auburn curls finally escaped the clutches of the hair gel and fanned across his forehead, tickling over his eyebrows. The taste of salt in the air no longer had the power to rattle him, but the sight of crashing waves still rendered his expression wistful.

Staring at Neil’s profile made Andrew itch for a cigarette, but he refrained; Neil’s display of mental fortitude wasn’t a lie, that much he knew, but Andrew was not taking any chances.

Neil began shucking off his leather shoes, socks, and suit jacket, and he spared Andrew a tiny smile as he stepped onto the sand. His message was clear: Andrew could choose to join him or stay there, and he wouldn’t mind either way.

Irritation tingled at the base of Andrew’s spine, and he stripped off his footwear and suit jacket, putting them in a pile next to Neil’s and yanking his tie loose in the process. Neil was taking careful steps towards the water, but he still had his fancy vest on and he hadn’t even bothered to roll up his pants, so Andrew hoped that he didn’t plan on going into the sea. He wouldn’t put it past Neil.

The sand was coarse underneath Andrew’s feet, chafing his skin as he trailed after Neil. The waves crept up the shore and ebbed away in an endless cycle, Neil’s toes a few inches away from the white foam, his forlorn gaze fixated on a point beyond the ripples where the black sky merged with the sea.

“It’s weird,” he said without moving his eyes, “I never thought I would feel like this when I’m at the beach.”

Andrew stared fixedly ahead as well, hands buried in his pockets. “Like what?”

“Calm,” Neil answered.

Andrew slid his gaze towards Neil, who turned to stare right back at him. Illuminated by the moon and the faint glow of the streetlamps on the hotel grounds, Neil seemed unreal, like he could fade away at any moment; a star at daybreak. It made Andrew’s heart throb in irrational apprehension, but Neil’s voice reined in that line of thought before it could spiral out of control.

“It’s because you keep me grounded,” Neil continued, quiet amidst the balmy breeze and the lapping of waves against jagged rocks. “You always do.”

_You keep me grounded as well_ , Andrew wanted to say, but the words remained frozen on his tongue.

It wasn’t like this was the first time Neil stood near the sea after his mother’s death – the first time he did, it was back when he was a sophomore in college and the rest of the team were with them, and Andrew had to talk Neil out of a mental breakdown while keeping him away from their prying teammates. The following trips were mostly brief, impromptu visits that happened only because Neil was stubborn and he and Andrew had come across the coastlines on their travel escapades, and they gradually became less unnerving for Neil over the years.

Things were never simple, but Neil had said _you keep me grounded_ as if they were, parsing them down to one truth: their progress was never exactly linear, but having each other had always helped in keeping them tethered to the parts of themselves that refused to be beaten down.

Andrew lifted his right hand, palm facing forward. At Neil’s inquiring look, he motioned to Neil’s left hand, and when Neil mimicked his gesture, he pressed their palms together, observing the way their fingers were aligned.

He weaved their fingers together and dug in, feeling the jut of bones in Neil’s hand. His apprehension abated. Definitely not a dream.

Andrew worked his jaw, something like wonder, something like dubiety, pitting against each other and coagulating into a thick mess in his chest at the way their fingers were seamlessly slotted together.

“A dance,” he said, after a pulse of silence, “Yes or no?”

Neil looked at their linked hands, then at Andrew. With a soft smile, he said, “Yes.”

Andrew placed his free hand on Neil’s waist, and Neil placed his on Andrew’s shoulder, leaning in close until his nose brushed along the shell of Andrew’s ear and down to the corner of his jaw. Andrew felt goosebumps trickling down his skin.

Neil pressed a kiss against Andrew’s cheek, feather-soft, before turning his face so that their foreheads touched. Their dancing mostly involved moving from side to side, bodies swaying slowly, but it was soothing that way, unpracticed and earnest, even if Andrew would never admit it.   

Neil’s eyelids fell shut as he exhaled a sigh that felt like glass-spun air against Andrew’s mouth.

The sand shifted beneath them, and the sea swelled silently.

*

Andrew is standing outside the hospital building. The sky is a bruised peach and the nascent rays of the sun snatch dull orange reflections from the few cars dotting the parking lot.

He doesn’t know how long he has been standing there – he stopped counting hours ago.

_His vitals are stable_ , _but –_

But.

Andrew tries and fails to light up a cigarette. His hands are shaking too much. He has given up on quelling the tremors. His hands don’t even feel like they belong to him.

A figure looms in front of him and a hand reaches out to take his lighter away.

It’s Wymack. He lights the cigarette dangling from Andrew’s lips on his first try, and Andrew takes a deep drag, the embers burning bright, the acridness smoldering his throat.

Wymack lights one up from his own pack, and stands beside Andrew, neither saying a word.

Andrew imagines the smoke filling their lungs, the nicotine poisoning their blood, and he feels his bones settle, just by a little.

*

A few of them try talking to him, but their words are meaningless. Andrew ignores them all.

They have all gone inside the room where Neil is. Andrew hasn’t.

He’s been standing in the hallway, staring at the dreary grey walls, past the blur of gurneys and rushing doctors. At one point in the night, Aaron had come up to him, still in his navy suit but looking much more rumpled, toting a first-aid kit. He had managed to usher Andrew to a chair somewhere and he had crouched in front of him, muttering _you’re going to give yourself a fucking infection_ , and Andrew had let him clean and patch up his wounds. Andrew could not have cared less. At that point, he was already far removed.  

Most of them have obligations to fulfill and lives to go back to, but they spend a few more days in the city, as if doing so would speed Neil’s recovery.

_His vitals are stable_ , _but –_

He’s not dead, but –

He isn’t awake to see just how long Andrew has been sitting by his bed, staring and staring and staring, looking at everything from the wrong end of a telescope. He is disconnected from all this. It is safer this way. He needs to stay for Neil, but he has lost focus. His body doesn’t feel like his, and his mind is a haze of static.

But the irony that the one thing keeping him alive will be the one to probably cause his death is never lost on him.

*

Neil smiles more than he used to.

Andrew has not really thought about this, even though he’s noticed it for quite some time now. He smiles a lot more, especially around Andrew, soft-edged and tantalizing. He grins and laughs without smothering the impulse anymore, without feeling self-conscious and afraid of resembling his father, without worrying how happiness seems out of place among the ravaged skin and frayed ends.

Andrew is only thinking about this now because he hasn’t seen Neil smile in three days. His face is a rictus; eyes closed, skin pallid. His hair is a dismal bronze, rusted. Some of his injuries have already healed, but he still hasn’t woken up. Andrew wonders if Neil will die like this – if he himself will die like this, the image of Neil’s spilling smile swarming behind his eyes.  

*

Neil exists in contradictions.

He is vicious and reckless like a raging fire, throwing grenades for words and pulling triggers on guns without hesitation, but he is also an open wound, balking at the sight of cleavers and glacier eyes.

He is a practiced liar who tells truths. He clings onto life but relinquishes it if it means others are safe. He has keen survival instincts and he is intelligent, but he jumps into danger and makes stupid decisions.

He is dangerous in more ways than one, but he is also the only person Andrew has ever felt safe with. He leaves Andrew’s throat dry, but he is also the oasis to the desert that is Andrew’s existence. He steals Andrew’s breath away, but he is also the very oxygen Andrew needs to live.

He is in front of Andrew, but he also isn’t.

*

Neil would be glad to know that he can still play Exy to his heart’s content after some physical therapy. That is, if he ever wakes up.

Andrew hasn’t spoken to anyone since that night, his voice buried, his words drowned. He spends his time staring absently at the tube that funnels intravenous fluids into Neil’s body and the green lines that leap to the monotonous beep of a heart monitor and the pale blue veins that branch from Neil’s scarred hands to his scarred arms. Sometimes Andrew eats and showers, sometimes he tries to sleep, but mostly he tries to breathe.

The drunkard that ran through the stop light and T-boned the Maserati died at the scene, and there is no target that he can focus on, that he can use to dig up any emotions resembling fury or vindication.

He needs to buy a new car soon. He can imagine some of the things Neil would say to this.

_Need me to spot you some cash again? It’ll be like old times_ , accompanied by a glib smirk.

_We have more than enough money now to buy you a few of those metallic beasts, but too bad we’ll never have enough to buy you the skills of a responsible driver_.

Andrew feels the corners of his lips curving, just by a small fraction. It happens sometimes; the ghost of a smile finds its way to his lips, imperceptible to anyone else but Neil. He finds that he doesn’t mind it, because it is not something coerced out of him by drugs, but something that arises because he has allowed himself to experience things that don’t eat him alive. Over the years, the emptiness that once stood at his core has slowly disappeared. Maybe it will never be completely erased; people like him and Neil have carried around too much darkness in them for so long that no amount of sheer brightness can ever really erase all of the fog.

But sometimes Neil smiles like he ate the sun, and Andrew doesn’t feel as vastly empty as he used to, and the two of them occasionally slow-dance, and they like to hold each other’s hands, and –

And these things are not meaningless.

He presses the tips of his fingers at the center of Neil’s palm.

Neil is still here, and he is still real. They both are.

“Neil,” Andrew whispers, the first word he’s spoken in days.

It is not supposed to be like this, but perhaps it doesn’t have to remain this way.

*

It is the fifth day, and some of their current teammates have popped in again, and so have most of the former Foxes. Andrew lets them. They might not mean much to him, but they do to Neil, and Neil to them.

After they have all left and he has called Bee, Andrew pulls one of the chairs closer to the bed and tries to finish the biographical book Kevin gave him during his visit, but his attention keeps travelling over to Neil’s face, where the bruises from the accident have healed and the burn marks are pink and honest in the summer light cascading in through the parted blinds. His hair is a burning crimson, sucking all the air from the room, and Andrew skims his gaze over to the rise and fall of Neil’s chest, barely noticeable, and then to his left hand, palm turned upwards on the mattress.

Andrew sets the book aside, props his left arm on the edge of the bed, and rests his cheek over the crook of his elbow, right where his armband ends. With his right hand, he touches Neil’s wrist, feeling the slow thrum of his pulse. His fingers trail down to the center of Neil’s palm, where he traces the contours and thinks about how Neil likes to do this with him, his fingertips skating gently across the calloused skin of Andrew’s palm over and over – _heart, head, life, fate_ , Neil would murmur, smiling at Andrew as he brings Andrew’s hand to his lips, a quiet reverence.    

Andrew closes his eyes, the pads of his fingers lightly stroking the creases on Neil’s palm.

When he feels the curl of fingers around his own, he opens his eyes and feels his throat go dry.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Good cohesive narrative? Don’t know her.
> 
> I HC that a girl from one of Neil’s old schools tried to flirt with him by holding his hands on the pretext of reading his palms. Neil didn’t buy into the “your whole life can be predicted” jazz because of how, y’know, crazy his life had been, but he found it fascinating in retrospect, ha
> 
> Let me know what you think of this fic - I'm super insecure about it :'D 
> 
> Come talk to me on my [tumblr ](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com)
> 
> EDIT: [the amazing wonderful lovely aminiyard made art based on this fic im in tears ](http://aminiyard.tumblr.com/post/167570223677/neil-andrew-whispers-the-first-word-hes)


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